


Last Friday Night

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bar fights, Biting, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Drunken sex, Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, M/M, Marking, Mood Whiplash, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, bad life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris raises an eyebrow when the bartender plonks down two glasses, the liquor in them probably what passes for top shelf here. “Seriously, Hale?”</p><p>The werewolf shrugs, shoulders rolling fluidly under smooth black leather, the movement highlighting the definition of his chest under the thin white shirt. Why is Chris even noticing this, why isn’t he going for one of the many weapons on his body, or even the ultrasonic transmitter that’d be a nice, discreet way of getting rid of unwanted canine company?</p><p>Oh yeah, because he’s been driven to drink by the thought of his daughter fucking werewolves. Plural. He can not comprehend why she would do that, could do that, not when she’d seen what lay beneath the human exterior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some time ago I posted on Tumblr about my great desire to see a fic where Chris gets drunk and hooks up with Peter because he wants to know why his daughter keeps fucking werewolves. This is that fic. Huge thank-you to Inouken, Sergeantharley and 1234Halefire for the support <3
> 
> Dubious consent refers to the fact that Chris has been drinking, and Peter as a werewolf is sober. 
> 
> More tags will be added as the fic is updated to reflect future content, but no further warnings should be necessary.

_“Another werewolf?!”_

If only it had stopped at that. What the hell is it with Allison’s constant attraction to wolves?

Chris’s mood is dark when he knocks back his third shot of whiskey.  First McCall, then Lahey, and now… both. The idea is making his stomach churn, his blood boil, his vision darken but there is nothing he can do. Allison is a legal adult—even if neither one of the boys is, a small dark voice notes—and she’s an Argent. With Victoria—gone, Chris is in the unorthodox situation where he’s deferring to his teenage daughter in more ways than he should.

He had to get out of the house. It might be his house, in his name, but there is very little say he has any more in what goes under his roof.

The bar is a few steps above a dive, the sort of a dark, sort of grimy place that shows up everywhere, even in places as placid as Beacon Hills. But the drinks aren’t watered down, and there’s classic rock in the jukebox so that makes Fibbers a place where he can get comfortably shitfaced, well, as shitfaced as he ever lets himself be.

It might be quiet right now, with the Nogitsune gone and Stiles almost entirely back to himself, but Chris harbours no illusions that another disaster isn’t waiting just beyond the horizon. The beacon has been lit but it’s not Gondor calling for aid, and there’s no one to ride to the rescue. Just a bunch of kids—his daughter included—himself, Deaton and—

“What is a nice man like you doing in a place like this?”

Speak .of the devil 

Chris doesn’t turn to look at the man—wolf—who spoke, silently cursing himself for his lapse of attention. Letting anyone, let alone a werewolf as dangerous as Peter Hale, sneak up on him is unforgivable, drunk or not. Not that he’s drunk, yet—it takes a lot more than this to get him off his game.

His scowl deepens when the stool next to his scrapes against the dirty floor and Hale sidles next to him, far too close for comfort despite the distance being outwardly respectable for an establishment like this. Which is to say, not much.

Hale should look out of place, in his designer skinny jeans and clingy t-shirt, the black leather jacket too smooth, too new, unlike Chris’s own, battered from many years of wear and tear. But somehow, the glib bastard fits right in, his lips curving into an infuriating smirk as he gestures the indifferent bartender for a drink.

Chris raises an eyebrow when the bartender plonks down two glasses, the liquor in them probably what passes for top shelf here. “Seriously, Hale?”

The werewolf shrugs, shoulders rolling fluidly under smooth black leather, the movement highlighting the definition of his chest under the thin white shirt. Why is Chris even noticing this, why isn’t he going for one of the many weapons on his body, or even the ultrasonic transmitter that’d be a nice, discreet way of getting rid of unwanted canine company?

Oh yeah, because he’s been driven to drink by the thought of his daughter fucking werewolves. Plural. He can not comprehend why she would do that, could do that, not when she’d seen what lay beneath the human exterior.

“It’s better than the swill you’ve been drinking,” Hale tilts his head, his expression not the expected smirk. He’s affecting something that comes off as vaguely hurt, as if he couldn’t understand why Chris won’t accept a drink from him. 

“Maybe I like the swill, Hale,” Chris says, but he reaches out to take the glass anyway. It’s utter foolishness to take a drink from a wolf, even when he watched the bartender pour it and Hale’s kept his paws to himself, but the dark twist in his gut is rebellious, contrary.  

_Why does his daughter want to fuck a wolf?_

The moue of distaste on Hale’s lips almost makes him laugh. Almost.

The whiskey is good when he takes a sip; he was half expecting it to taste like poison, like fire and ashes, like the death that lays between them. Hale and Argent. His sister’s blood on Peter’s claws. The ashes of his kin on hers.

The silence stretches on between them as Led Zeppelin plays on the background. Peter picks up his glass - and since when did Chris allow himself think of him as Peter, and not Hale? - and takes a deep swig, makes a small noise of appreciation.

Makes sense, Chris supposes; if you can’t feel the hit, you’d want something for the taste, not for the burn.

But Chris is here for the burn; he gulps down the rest of his whiskey and slams the glass on the bar too hard. It doesn’t break, but the noise is like a bell on the awkward silence they have going on despite the din around them.

Peter tsks, tilting his chin in disapproval.  “Really, Christophe?”

“I don’t recall us being on first name basis, Hale,” Chris bites out, feeling heat on his cheeks because yeah, he’d started referring to the wolf as Peter inside his own head in the last few minutes.

He doesn’t blame it on alcohol; he is too self-aware to try to bullshit himself. There’s an ugly thrumming under his skin, something dark brewing at the pit of his belly, fuelled by far more than just cheap whiskey and impotent anger. He won’t lie to himself about having been open to doing more to his sorrows than just drowning them if the opportunity presented itself, and now, here was Peter fucking Hale buying him a drink, lounging on the stool next to him, despite the knowledge that Chris could—and would—end him.

“You wound me, Christophe,” Peter’s face is the picture of innocence, as if his words were nothing more than a platitude and not a barb meant to dig in, to push Chris’s buttons.

“Don’t tempt me.” He spits out, but the words are more bitter and worn than angry, despite the churn. He’s not raising to the bait Peter is dangling in front of him, all shiny and sharp.

 Peter smiles, shifting his weight on the seat, spreading his legs in a mockery of a blatant invitation. “Tempt you?”

Chris closes his eyes, which he knows is a mistake; he should not take his eyes off the wolf, no matter how keen his other senses. He can never match those of the wolf straight on, even when he can hear Peter’s too-even breathing and smell the expensive cologne beneath the pall of stale beer in the air. His fingers convulse around the now-empty glass, not hard enough to break but hard enough to get him what he assumes is a raised eyebrow accompanying the thoughtful hmm.

“Really, Christophe?”  There is a note of incredulity in Peter’s voice that rings too close to true. Chris steels himself to the words that follow, because he’s given too much away, given Peter too much ammunition to ignore.

There’s a warm hand on his thigh and Peter leans closer, close enough for his breath to brush against Chris’s skin, the smell of whiskey mingled with his words. “I know what this is all about, Christophe,” the voice is a warm, honeyed purr, at odds with the poison in the words.

“I saw her today, at the loft. Sitting primly between the two of them, as if we couldn’t smell them all over each other.”

The thought of his daughter should sour Chris’s mood completely, drench the hot anger coalescing at the pit of his belly and stop the rush of blood in his ears. But it doesn’t, and he hates himself just a little bit more for it. Hates knowing that Peter can smell the heat that’s blossoming under the bitter anger, tinged with despair. 

“Don’t talk about her,” Chris says gruffly, forcing his eyes open. His fingers wrap around Peter’s wrist, his hold tight enough to leave a momentary bruise, but he doesn’t move the hand away. Peter is leaning in close, far closer than is appropriate; for a moment he thinks what would happen if someone took exception, and the idea is so absurd he almost laughs. Almost.

But it’s enough. Peter raises an eyebrow, leans in another fraction of an inch. “What’s so funny?”

Before Chris can decide if he’s willing to articulate an answer about alphas and darachs and kanimas—oh my!—and bar fights, the part of him that hasn’t allowed alcohol, or Peter, to overwhelm his senses and to dull his awareness goes tense.

He knows Peter’s noticed it too, a subtle shift in the air around them, the sound of heavy boots scuffing against the floor, and by the time a heavy hand lands on Chris’s shoulder, the wolf’s expression has shifted into something both petulant and murderous.  It shouldn’t look attractive on anyone, but somehow, just like everything else, Peter Hale can pull it off.

He tightens his grip of Peter’s wrist in warning as the man behind him speaks up. Even in a place like Beacon Hills, Chris is not surprised to hear the bigotry in the slurred words.

The exact words and his own reply—quick on the mark before Peter can say something that would bring the entire place down on their heads—don’t really matter; he would just ignore it, drag Peter out of there before there’s bloodshed, except once he shrugs off the hand on his shoulder it does not stay off. Instead, the drunken guy makes the mistake of trying to pull Chris off the stool.

Chris doesn’t act without thinking; that is not in his nature. But his reaction is still quick and brutal, his grip of Peter’s wrist never faltering as he grabs the offending hand and slams the man’s head into the bar.

Peter laughs, startled, and then it’s on. Chris won’t bullshit himself; he’s been itching for something ever since he left the house, and since he is not going to fuck Peter Hale, a fight will do.

Chris is more worried about what Peter will do than he is of their opponents; it’s not arrogance, it’s a cold hard fact. Peter is a livewire, danger and violence lurking under the urbane exterior; just like Chris is a hunter, his skills honed to perfection over the past three decades, his body a weapon. Four drunken civilians, shit, make that six? He’d be wary, but not worried.

It’s different when he’s got a fucking werewolf at his back, fluidly moving to stand beside Chris, wrist still caught in the hunter’s grip. It’s not the first time they’ve fought side by side, or even back to back, but this isn’t a battle to the death against animated garden gnomes—he really doesn’t want to think about that one—this is just a fucking bar fight in a dingy dive and he’ll be damned if he’ll allow Peter to…

Peter doesn’t try to pull his hand away; instead, he moves with Chris’s hold, twists his arm so they’re clasping wrists, standing side by side. There’s no hint of claws in that grip, but even though he can’t see it, Chris is certain there is a hint of fangs in Peter’s smile. “Bring it on, bitches.”

The fight is short, brutal and to the point; this isn’t some action movie with choreography involving pool cues or spinning around each other taking out opponents. Holding Peter’s wrist is a handicap, but this isn’t the first time Chris has fought one-armed; and having an ally on his side makes it even easier. It’s a matter of minutes that their six assailants are down, with a minimum of blood and maiming.

Chris is breathing hard, the side of his face throbbing from a glancing blow. Beside him, Peter isn’t even out of breath but his eyes are close to glowing, and now the hint of claws is definitely there, evident even through the leather of his jacket.

Without a word, Chris tugs Peter along for a hasty exit. He doesn’t think it’s likely that anyone will call the cops, but even with the Sheriff being an ally and sometimes friend, this is not a risk he wants to take. Not when he can feel Peter next to him brimming with energy and dissatisfaction, practically whining.

Fucking werewolves.

Outside, the air is chilly for the season; it hits his skin, making him aware of the fact that he’s still running hot, the itch under his skin hasn’t gone anywhere. Peter’s hand is too hot in his; with a start, Chris realizes his grip has shifted, that they’re practically holding hands while they saunter away from the bar, down the back alleys.

“I hope you’re happy, Christophe. I need to find a new haunt to play pool at.”  Peter’s voice breaks the near-silence.

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Pool?”  
  
“Yes, pool, the bastard cousin of billiards where you hit balls with a stick. Generally for money. “ Peter’s snark doesn’t quite hit the mark, his fingers curling into Chris’s far too casually. For a moment, the thought of Peter with a cue in his hands, bending over to make a shot in those skin-tight jeans enters his head and Chris’s mouth goes dry.

He knows Peter is picking up on it: the wolf can’t read his mind but he can read his body. Knows just what lurks under the surface, can smell what’s keeping his heartbeat up even as adrenaline is passing out of his system.

And he’s not letting go of Chris’s hand.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback <3

Christophe Argent smells _delicious_. Peter inhales deeply enough for the hunter to notice easily, and grins. He had not counted on this when he came out - had not expected to find an angry hunter drowning his many and varied sorrows when all he’d been after was a game of pool and separating some fool from their money. He lies when he says he has to find a new spot; he’s been getting into worse shit at Fibbers since before he was old enough to drink legally, and they haven’t barred him yet. Thrown him out, sure, but he always comes back. He’s good at that.

But here the hunter is now, with Peter all pent-up anger and sorrow, the lines in his face deep with bitterness and pain. Peter knows his barb about Allison and the pups hit close, closer maybe than he’d intended and since he’s not going to get what he came for, pushing Chris into _something_ will just have to do.

He knows the hunter won’t kill him - not with the both of them knowing that the Nogitsune was not the last of the threats they will face. Peter may be a high-functioning sociopath - although he prefers Elementary to Sherlock- but he’s a Hale. and Beacon Hills is his and no two-bit marauding monster is going to fuck with what’s _his._

He holds Chris’s gaze, squeezing his fingers around the hunter’s hand. “Don’t you wonder why?” he asks, voice deceptively calm.

"No.” Chris doesn’t have to elaborate; they both know what he is talking about.

Oh this is too good. “Really?” Peter draws the word out. “Not curious at all, why she keeps going back? Keeps fucking-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence; Chris hits him, a sharp jab in the solar plexus. Drunk the hunter may be but he’s still aware enough to know that punching Peter in the face is more likely to lead to broken fingers than a broken jaw, and werewolves need _air_ , too.

Peter gasps, unresisting when Chris’s fingers curl into his shirt and he’s slammed into the alley wall. His head bounces off the dirty brick painfully as Chris pushes into his space, crowds him, despite the fact that Peter is half an inch taller - _not that he keeps track, thank you very much ._

Werewolves run hot, but so do hunters. Chris’s body is hot against his, pressed close, too close for this to be a fight and the adrenaline that’s been buzzing under Peter’s skin, howling to let go ever since the first punch he pulled surges. Peter throws his head back and whines in blatant invitation, hips moving against Chris. 

“You know you want to,” His voice is low and rough and needy even to his own ears, “You can’t stop thinking about it. So _do it._ "

He expects a bite; the hunter going for the throat of the wolf, a perverse victory of pain and blood and _fuck yes_ , so it is a surprise when he feels Chris’s deep growl and then there’s a hand in his hair, yanking him forward and Chris’s tongue is licking it’s way into his mouth.

Part of him wants to splutter, reject this, he wants to _fuck_ Chris and fuck with his head, not get this kind of intimate but Jesus fuck Chris can _kiss_ \- Peter feels his lips parting willingly, a moan trapped under Chris’s far too gentle assault on his mouth. It’s not tender, it’s insistent, possessive and angry, but it’s not _cruel_ and Peter feels his knees go weak as his hands come up to clutch at the hunter’s shoulders.

He is _not_ swooning like some silly girl. He bites at Chris’s lips, fingers digging into the firm muscle, arching off the wall to rub against the hunter. He can feel how much this is affecting Chris, the tension, the hard lines of his body and the unmistakable erection. Peter wants it _all._

Chris yanks his hair, just hard enough to hurt. “Don’t bite,” his voice is raw against Peter’s lips.

“Shut up,”Peter hisses and goes in again, nipping at Chris’s mouth. 

The hand in his hair tightens, pulls his head back. “I know what you’re doing,” Chris grits through clenched teeth, a rock hard thigh pressing between Peter’s just right to make him see stars. “You’re trying to goad me into taking you right here, against the filthy wall like an _animal_ ,” the hunter spits out the word, “Drag me down with you.”

Peter doesn’t bother denying it; he grinds up, chasing the delicious friction. “Is it working?”

He expects to be slammed into the wall, another snarl, maybe even a slap. He doesn’t expect Chris’s hand curling around the back of his neck, bringing their faces together, so close he can taste himself in the hunter’s breath. “Yes. And no.”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut as Chris moves, lips brushing against his cheek far too softly before he whispers in Peter’s ear. “I am going to take you home and fuck you in my bed.”

Desire punches him in the gut and Peter makes a wounded noise, arching into Chris. His hips stutter against the hunter’s thigh, he’s so hard it _hurts_ as Chris keeps up the relentless pressure, a stream of filthy promises whispered into his ear, each and every one making Peter that much harder with the thought of how much he’s getting to Chris.

_Going to have you wet and begging for me before I split you open._

If you will ask Peter how they got from that alley to the Argents’ building, he will not be able to tell you how. They stumble along, Chris’s arm around him, thumb hooked into his belt loop, pausing only so he can press Peter into a wall and kiss him wet and deep time and time again so that when Chris is keying in the alarm code to the building doors, Peter is panting against his neck fighting the urge to _beg_ because he needs to come so badly. 

He’ll take it back, Chris is cruel. Harsh and sadistic and Peter would not have it any other way

The elevator ride doesn’t last long: it’s only four floors, four _glorious_ floors that Peter spends pressed against the wall, Chris’s face buried in his neck, tongue chasing the already healing beard burn. He briefly contemplates reaching out past Chris to hit the emergency stop and getting on his knees right there, when Chris finally scrapes teeth over the tendons in his neck and for a split second Peter loses all coherent thought.

The doors of the elevator ding open and they stumble out: Peter takes a step back, away from Chris and tries to get his bearings back. the scent of arousal and anger is thick in the air, but the bitterness has receded. He can taste the need burning at the bit of his stomach, knows another wolf would smell how he’s craving it, for Christophe Argent to make good of his damned words and _take him_.

This is not what he signed up for; not when he went to the bar, when he started flirting with Chris, not even when he dared the hunter to go for it. He expected a hurried hand job in the alley, perhaps getting on his knees and sucking the desperation and defiance out along with Chris’s brains, but not - this. 

He’d underestimated Chris; or perhaps the other way around. Only thing Peter is certain is that he gravely misjudged the situation, but this was so much _better_ than any quick fuck against a wall could have been. His dear Christophe is following in darling Allison’s footsteps, in taking a werewolf in his bed. Literally.

The unearthly delight of getting so deep under his skin is enough to make Peter swoon; It’s headier than the physical arousal: the clink of keys in the lock pulls a feral grin to the fore as he steps closer to Chris, pressing the length of his body against the hunter’s back as the door is pushed gently open.

“Shall we be quiet?” Peter murmurs against the shell of Chris’s ear, lips soft and wet. “To not to disturb dear Allison?”

Chris stiffens, his entire body going rigid under Peter’s touch. “She’s not here.”

Oh this is too easy. Peter grins into Chris’s skin, wrapping his arms around the hunter's trim waist. “Really now.” 

“Really.” and with that Chris twists around, grabbing Peter by the shoulders and slams him into the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

Some dim part of him is telling Chris this is a colossally bad idea; not only has he brought a wolf into his home, he’s got the wolf pressed against the wall in the foyer, obscene noises dragged from reddened lips with every pass of his teeth over sensitive skin.

He’s not blind to the irony of a hunter biting a wolf’s neck. It’s not that he doesn’t care, he does, and it sits sharp and heavy in his belly furled into the heat of his arousal: the awareness of what this is, of who they are even if their own peculiar brand of blood feud is banished from his conscious thoughts. 

Chris kisses Peter again, licks into his mouth; Peter responds eagerly, the taste of whiskey still faintly lingering on his lips. By the night is over, Chris intends to only taste himself in that sinful mouth; if he is doing this, he is doing it _right_ and Peter is making it so damn hard - 

He’s tempted, he is so fucking tempted to just push Peter down on his knees right here; have those slick lips wrap around his cock, bury a hand in Peter’s hair and just take. Take what Peter has been promising all evening, let him deliver on the unspoken promises and breathless noises.

Instead, he pulls back and takes a deep lungful of air. Even to his dull human senses, the air is heavy with the scents or anticipation and arousal. Peter’s eyes flutter open and they’re edging towards unnatural blue, showing how far he’s pushed the wolf.

Part of him wants to just blurt out _bed, now_ but instead, Chris grits his teeth and wraps his hand around Peter’s wrist, mirroring their earlier actions at the bar. “I made you a promise,” he says, his voice gruff even to his own ears.

Peter grins, sly and wild with a hint of fang. “There were a lot of promises, Christophe.” 

Chris doesn’t bother bragging that he intends to fulfill every single one of them; instead he just tugs and Peter follows him willingly, all the way to the bedroom where Chris is momentarily halted by indecision. He decides for, and flicks one of the switches on the wall, bathing the room in soft golden glow as he tugs Peter towards the bed.

“And here I thought it would be lights off, under the covers, missionary style.” Peter raises an eyebrow with a smug smirk, as if his pupils weren’t blown and his hair in disarray form where Chris’s hands were buried in it, slick trailing along his neck where the red marks had already faded into healed skin.

For a moment, Chris _aches_ in a way that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with Victoria; he is infinitely glad that this is a new apartment, a new room, a new bed that he’s going to tumble the far too cocksure wolf into. 

Peter makes a noise when Chris pulls him into a kiss, deep and hungry as his hands roam along the defined planes of Peter’s back, down to cup his ass through the denim. For all the groping and grinding they’ve done to get here, this is the first time Chris has his hands on that perfect ass and he can’t help but marvel how it fits his hands just right, lets him pull Peter’s hips against his so snugly. He hisses into the kiss as their erections brush together through thick fabric, the zipper biting down painfully.

He doesn’t bother telling Peter they’re wearing too many clothes. His hands slide up and slide Peter’s jacket off, grasp the white t-shirt by the hem and yank it up in one smooth motion, taking care to not to tangle. He might still be a bit drunk, maybe a little more than a bit but his coordination hasn’t failed him. 

Peter’s skin is hot, inhumanly so under his hands as he rakes his blunt nails down, between the shoulderblades. Peter writhes under the touch, as if he doesn’t know if he wants to get away or ask for more.

Chris doesn’t care, he’s going to give him more.

Peter lands on the bed with an audible oof. Chris stalks towards him, shedding his own jacket and toeing his boots off. The werewolf is looking at him with wide too-blue eyes, his defined chest heaving as he drags himself up on his elbows to a mockery of a sultry pose.

“Come and get me, big b-” Peter doesn’t get to finish the sentence; Chris is on him, kissing hard enough to bruise a human, hands buried in Peter’s hair.

The bed dips under their weight as he pushes Peter down, luxuriating in the feel of hard planes under his body, the electricity of bare skin against his for the first time since - too long. Peter is moaning into the kiss, hot and hungry, his hands coming up to rake under Chris’s shirt. Nails, not claws and Chris hisses at the contact, at the ferocity of it.

He lets Peter tug his shirt up so they’re both bare to the waist; there’s a surprised noise as blue eyes rove over him and Chris smirks. Yeah, he might be a human and edging into middle age, without a werewolf’s affinity for an easy build, but his body is a honed weapon, his strength and agility evident. If Peter expected him to be soft, to be breakable, to be _prey_ he was sorely mistaken.

He also probably didn’t expect Chris to have a tattoo.

In a blink Chris has a grip of Peter’s hands, pinning them on the mattress over their heads. A quick dirty kiss on the lips and then his teeth find Peter’s neck again, biting down harder than before. 

He gets the reaction he wanted; Peter _yowls_ under him, his body arching off the bed and rubbing against Chris in what’s close to desperation. With a grim smile, Chris bites again, worrying the flesh between his teeth knowing the purple bruise will heal far too soon.

Peter is panting beneath him, his cock straining through those too-tight jeans; Chris thinks that he could make the wolf come just like that, just pin him down and bite until Peter’s a mess. He thinks it wouldn’t take long for Peter to be ready again, to let Chris _wreck_ him again.

It’s intoxicating, far more than any alcohol, and Chris is terribly torn. He could keep Peter like this, on the edge, writhing and begging until Chris was well and done with him, or he could see just _how_ much Peter could take. 

Just going with the flow is not an option. Not when it’s not just some random guy, some random _werewolf_ in his bed. it’s _Peter._

His indecisiveness costs him; he doesn’t notice Peter’s hips shifting, a foot bracing on the bed before the wolf is moving to roll them over. Chris curses when Peter grinds down, slow and dirty. He expected to be pinned down, but his hands are free and they grip Peter’s jean-clad hips hard enough to bruise.

Just because Peter’s on top doesn’t mean he’s in control. Chris moves his hand, raking blunt nails along Peter’s side, drawing a gasp from the wolf and the answering bite of nails on his chest where Peter’s hands flex. Peter arches into the touch and it’s easy to grab him by the neck and pull him down into another wet, messy kiss. 

He shouldn’t enjoy kissing Peter so much, shouldn’t enjoy all the noises so much. Shouldn’t pull the wolf close, shouldn’t grind up, like they’re teenagers afraid to get third base but overwhelmed by just how _good_ it feels to have another body pressing into yours.

“This how it’s gonna be, Christophe?” Peter hisses between kisses, “Just rutting like a pair of _teenagers_?” and in that inflection the thoughts Chris has been trying to chase away, of just what has spurred this on return.

“No,” he growls and then Peter’s the one on his back again, rolled over far too easily. Chris’s hand moves to yank at Peter’s fly, not bothering to tug the belt free of its loops as he pulls down the zipper. 

Peter is going commando. Of course. 

He doesn’t hesitate as he wraps his hand around Peter’s cock, stroking firmly from the root to the tip. For a moment he expects to feel something inhuman, something _more_ than this, but there’s nothing monstrous about the way it fits in his palm. The sound Peter makes, the deep, purring growl on the other hand is a sound no human could make and it goes straight into Chris’s dick.

He can hear the sheets rend under Peter’s claws as he starts to slowly jack him off, leaning in for another kiss. There’s a hint of fang there, in the way Peter latches on to him eagerly.

“You look so good like this,” Chris murmurs, not sure where the words are coming from. “So pretty.” 

Peter groans and his hips jerk off the bed, pushing into Chris’s grip. “Goddammit Chris don’t you fucking start - “

Chris shuts him up with a quick, biting kiss. “Start what? Telling you how fucking _gorgeous_ you are when you’re spread out on your back? How good you look all marked up, your mouth fucking _ruined_?”

“You don’t have to - to sweet talk me, just _fuck me_!” Of course Peter could turn a gasp into a demand.

One Chris is inclined to acquiesce to, he thinks, as he scrapes his teeth down Peter’s pale chest, leaving angry red marks on the soft skin below his ribs.

*****

 

Perhaps not pursuing as many carnal relations as he could since he came back from the dead had been a mistake, some part of Peter reflects as Chris’s teeth sink into the sensitive skin on his hip, dragging another moan from his swollen lips. Perhaps that would have prepared him for the onslaught that is having all of the hunter’s attention on him, on the single-minded task of taking Peter apart.

The knowledge of the morning after just makes the pleasure pulsing through his veins all the much sweeter. 

 

“G-get on with it, Argent,” he hisses, lips twisting around the name. No, that name doesn’t belong here, not between them when all Peter wants is that fucking mouth on his dick right now and to sink his teeth into that damned tattoo the hunter has been hiding from them all.

“You can still form coherent sentences, I’m going to fix that.” Chris’s voice is a deep, dark, delicious purr and the smirk on his lips is just as evil as any Peter has seen in the mirror as he slides his arms under Peter’s thighs, fingers digging into his ass just this side of pleasurable.

And then he puts his mouth on Peter.

“Jesus fuck!” his cock twitches against nothing, and Peter can feel the precome oozing down his shaft as Chris Argent starts to lick him open. Again, Peter is thrown, remembering the words form the alley - _wet and begging for me_ \- and how this is not what he expected at all.

He’s not sure if this is better, or a disaster, no matter how bright the sparks of pleasure shooting behind his screwed-shut eyelids. He has been itching for something, but this is not scratching it. This was drawing it out in excruciating detail, with every involuntary sound he made, with every twitch of his legs in Chris’s grip. 

This _should_ be hatesex, should be fighting and biting and grappling for dominance. It should not be Peter’s back arching off the bed and something unclenching in his gut even as his desire ratchets higher.

He nearly comes when Chris slides two rough fingers into him. But Chris’s hand is there, grasping the base of his cock and squeezing, keeping the orgasm at bay.

“G- going to make me come on your cock?” Peter pants, his breath catching with every twist of the hunter’s fingers. 

Chris’s grin is full of teeth. “Who says you get to come at all?”

The fingers hit him _just right_ and Peter keens, white light bursting behind his eyelids. It feels so good, too good, too much and _not enough_.

“Please,” the words are broken as they pass his lips, “Fuck, Chrstophe, please…”

The moment stretches between them and suddenly there is something cold and slick between his legs as Chris slides first a third, then a fourth finger into him. The burning stretch is delicious and not enough and Peter knows some dam inside him has broken and he doesn’t care as he pleads the hunter for more, to fuck him with his fingers, to let him come, oh god just…

He’s sobbing when Chris pulls out his fingers, empty and aching for more. There’s tears streaming down his face when he opens his eyes - when did he close them? - and sees Chris looming over him, eyes bright and ethereal.

“That’s it, Peter,” Chris’s voice is low and rough, scraping along his nerves like crushed velvet. “ _Let go._ ”

And Peter does. He doesn’t come but the last of the fight drains out of him and the noise he makes when Chris slides into him slowly, inch by inch is not human. There’s hands in his hair and Chris is pressing him down into the mattress, kissing him again, tongue in counterpoint to the thrusts of his hips. 

There’s a hand on his thigh, pulling his leg up and Peter obeys without a thought, wrapping his legs around Chris, trying to draw him even closer. he pants into the kiss, his claws rending the mattress as Chris drives into him, time and time again with with startling precision. Chris is overwhelming his every sense, every fiber of his being, drowning him in want and desperate _need_ with every deep stroke hitting his prostate, with every brush of the sweat-slicked abs against Peter’s own neglected cock.

“Just like that, Peter,” Chris whispers into the kiss, tongue swiping the sweat beading on peter’s upper lip, “Come for me.”

It shouldn’t be enough but it is. The orgasm that tears through Peter is immense, white-hot pleasure coursing through his body as he arches off the bed. His cock pulses, trapped against Chris’s stomach, pulsing with wet heat between their bodies. It’s so much, too much, and Chris is still fucking into him and he cries out -

Peter does _not_ pass out for a second. He is adamant about it, despite his eyelids fluttering open and aftershocks of pleasure coursing through his body in muted weaves: Chris is still inside him, an inscrutable look on his face, but his eyes are bright and hungry.

Peter gasps when Chris moves inside him, body edging from aftershocks to oversensitive. Chris’s movements are oddly gentle as he bends down to ghost his lips over Peter’s open mouth. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when I’ve made you come.” Chris murmurs and picks up his pace again. “I’m gonna keep fucking the snark out of you, wreck you, have you beg… you’ll look so good on your knees for me, Peter, you look so fucking _perfect_ in my bed.. “

All Peter can do is hiss “ _Yes…_ ” and then Chris’s hips buck forward one more time and the sound the hunter makes closer to a growl than a groan as he spills himself inside Peter’s spent body. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finishing my first-ever Teen Wolf fanfic. only took me 17 months. Thanks to all my awesome betas &who made this happen in time! 
> 
> Happy Petopher Appreciation Week!

Chris wakes up to a hellish hangover, a full bladder, and a snoring Peter Hale curled up in his arms. 

He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little, winces at the wave of nausea and pain it causes, and opens them again. No, there’s still a werewolf in the crook of his arm, snuffling in his sleep, just as naked as Chris himself is. 

Despite how drunk he _must_ have been, memories of the night before are crystal clear when he thinks about how they ended up here, in his bed, and what they’d done. And he remembers- _after_ , remembers wrapping his hand around the wolf’s neck and pulling him close, telling him to stay. 

And Peter stayed. 

Chris moves slowly and carefully, moving the arm that is not currently trapped under a _snoring werewolf_ to check for a weapon. He remembers Peter curling into him, too fucked-out to disagree, can feel the evidence on his skin. Even his muted human senses can smell the mingled sweat and come, the pungent aroma of sex still in the air. 

There’s still multiple weapons at reach. So Peter… why is he still calling the wolf Peter? He tries to think _Hale_ , tries to be angry but it feels hollow, as if he’d let all the emotions bleed out the night before when he pounded into the willing body beneath him, begging for more. 

Slowly, he starts to pull away. Peter makes a disappointed noise, burrowing his face closer to Chris’s skin, tightening the arm he’d thrown around the hunter’s waist. 

There is only one thing Chris can realistically do if he wants to avoid bloodshed, and he’s tired of blood. He knows it’s still risky, and he knows there’s a chance he will burn for it, but still he reaches with this free hand to brush a lock of hair off Peter’s temple. 

“Let go, Peter,” he murmurs, “I need to get up.” 

“Nooooooo….” Peter whines, he actually _whines_ and butts his head against Chris’ hand, like an overgrown cat and not a wolf. . 

Feeling a smile tug at his lips surprises Chris, as does the small chuckle. “I have to.” He extracts himself from Peter’s hold, noticing how the werewolf buries himself under the blankets. He has no doubt Peter’s nowhere near as sleepy as he appears, his steel-trap mind turning everything that had happened between them around and around till he’d find his angle. 

Chris is not afraid when he gets into the bathroom to take care of business. He turns the water hot, too hot, as he goes into the shower and hisses when it hits the scrapes and bruises from the fight. His cheek throbs painfully, and a quick glance to the mirror confirms that there’s a livid mark from that one lucky hit. 

He buries his head under the water and reaches for the bottles. He reeks, even to his human senses, of sex and sweat and booze, and he’d rather not have that linger on his skin any longer than absolutely necessary. Part of him again wants to scrub until he’s raw, to wash the stench of _werewolf_ off his skin. The same werewolf who might still be _in his bed._

In the drunken haze of the night before, it had felt like an important, meaningful difference that he’d bring Peter here, that he’d fuck a wolf in a bed and not up against an alley wall or bent over the hood of a car. The distinction had _mattered_ , Now, in the light of the day it --

Chris groans and rests his aching head against the cool bathroom tile. There’s only the faintest traces of his righteous anger, the dark, broiling mass of rage and grief and everything else that pounded through his veins last night, replaced by a satisfaction that's not as grim as he’d thought it’d be. 

He remembers telling Peter to _let go_ last night. Maybe, just maybe Chris has done something similar himself. There is a calm inside him that feels alien, like the well of constant bitterness and anger has finally ran dry. It is nothing what he expected but he refuses to give Peter Hale the satisfaction of being _ashamed_ of what happened. _If Allison can, so can he_ \- even though there is a world of difference between… her relationship, and a drunken one-night stand. 

Slowly, he turns off the water and steps out of the shower. He picks a towel off the rack and realizes he didn’t bring any clothes. Fuck.

Chris takes a deep breath as he pulls the towel in tight around his waist and steps back into his bedroom. 

Peter’s sprawled out on the bed, leaning back against the headboard without a care in the world. He’s smirking like the cat who not only got the cream but the whole damn dairy farm. 

“The shower is free,” Chris says carefully, tamping down on the flare of desire and possessiveness at the sight of Peter spread out in his bed as he makes his way to the dresser to grab some goddamn pants. 

“You didn’t wait for me. I am disappointed in you, Christophe,” Peter’s voice is a low purr. as he stretches, showing off the definition of his chest and arms. “Imagine what fun we could’ve had in the shower.” 

So that’s how they were going to play it. Chris grabs a pair of boxer shorts and moves over to  
the bed, sitting down carefully, hand on the edge of the mattress. Peter might show no trace of what they’d done, or the bar fight, but Chris is not as young as he used to be. 

 

Peter watches him with hooded eyes, his arms thrown casually over his head and for a moment Chris wonders how they’d look like cuffed to the headboard with all of Peter’s strength straining against them, while Chris replaces all the marks from last night that have faded far too soon.

“I was hoping for you to join me,” he says, voice low and raspy and leans over to kiss Peter. 

Peter inhales sharply but then he _melts_ into the kiss, his arms coming around Chris, his palms broad and warm over the hunter’s shoulders. 

Chris lets go of the knife wedged under the mattress and wraps his hand around Peter’s neck, squeezing tight.

****

It’s so easy, too easy to let the hunter kiss him. Inhale deeply of their mixed scents and let the warmth of another body envelope him, lull him into a deep sense of satiation he hadn’t even known he’d craved. 

He should have run when he had the chance. But he’s riding high on the victory of getting to Argent, getting to _Chris_ , and as much as he hates to admit it, he wants to gorge on this, on being touched, on being wanted to the point where he’s being spread out on a hunter’s bed against all odds. 

He should have left, but Chris, but _Argent_ should have thrown him out. Instead, the hunter is pinning him down again, licking hot stripes down Peter’s neck that have him aching for a bite, the scrape of teeth, more. And it’s _glorious._

He’ll take this, take what Argent has to give him and then go, leave the knowledge that the hunter is doing this sober and not drunk off his face with grief and cheap whiskey, he’s gonna lord it over his--

The sound Peter makes is _not_ a yelp, dammit, when Chris’ teeth find his nipple, the sharp sting accompanied by the wet heat of the hunter’s mouth. There’s a moment when Peter can feel the brief grin, before Chris tugs again with his teeth, drawing another involuntary sound from the wolf. 

Somehow Peter finds himself with his wrists pinned to the bed, and he knows he could break the hold but he doesn’t want to, he wants Chris to keep using his goddamn mouth, the sharp nips of teeth along his ribs sparking pleasure down his spine even as a part of him is horrified about baring his belly to a hunter, drawing pleasure from the scrape of breard against the sensitive skin below his navel. 

He cries out when Chris bites his thigh, hard. He can feel the skin break, smell the blood in the air just as he can smell the precome that’s leaking from his dick, straining hard against his belly as Chris bites him again and again, leaving trails of blood over phantom bruises but 

“Goddammit Argent put your mouth on my cock or I’ll-” 

Chris laughs and flexes his grip around Peter’s wrists,hard enough to mark but not hard enough to break bones. “Or you'll what, Peter? Gonna whine like a bitch in heat some more? Beg me to touch you, take you apart?” 

And Peter knows he could break Chris’ hold, he could take himself in hand, he could grab the hunter's hair and force his dick in his mouth - the fact that Argent would bite it off is besides the point, Peter wants to be touched dammit - 

“Please,” the breathlessness of his voice surprises even himself. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, only that he’s pleading a hunter to suck him off and it’s not something that should be turning him on, shouldn’t make his heart race, shouldn’t make him close his eyes and bare his neck but that’s what he is doing, he’s putting himself in Argent’ s hands. And Argent is grabbing him and holding on tight and he swears it’s the awaiting triumph of shaking Argent off, walking away that has Peter whining high in his throat and begging Argent for it, to be taken, to be conquered, nothing else. 

Argent, _Chris_ , laughs, a deep dark chuckle that sends a shiver down Peter’s spine. He opens his eyes and looks at Argent, look at the bright blue eyes filled with a dark desire the wolf knows is mirrored in his own. 

“Stay still,” Argent warns him, voice low and rough and before Peter can say anything, snark back a response the hunter moves, lightning quick, to wrap his mouth around Peter’s cock.

Peter _howls._

**

Sucking dick is like riding a bike, it comes back to Chris easily even though it’s been years since he last did this, last used his mouth to take a man apart. He hums around Peter’s cock, flicks his tongue against the sensitive underside and watches the wolf writhe on the sheets, sees the light sheen of sweat on the chest that _should_ be red with his marks. 

Peter is hot and heavy in his mouth and as much as Chris wants to draw this out, see how many noises the wolf can make until he’s reduced to wordless begging, into pure animal need, Chris’ own erection is throbbing insistently and he’ll be damned if he comes before the wolf does. 

The wolf’s moans turn into a high-pitched whine when Chris takes more of him in his mouth with deliberate slowness, not pausing until the head of Peter’s cock is hitting the back of his throat and even then it’s only to inhale deeply before Chris takes it all, swallows Peter to the root. 

Chris bobs his head a few times, lets Peter feel the hot clutch of his throat and before long, when his nails bite into the soft skin of Peter’s wrists, the wolf’s hips buck up and he _sobs_ when his orgasm hits him, when he shoots his load down Chris’ throat. 

Chris doesn’t choke, he swallows it all, eyes locked on Peter’s face as the wolf sobs and wails his release. He pulls off with an audible pop and licks his lips as he straightens up, tasting the wolf and wondering why it doesn’t taste wrong, alien. Instead, Peter tastes just like he ought to, tastes like the wolf is _his._

Peter looks debauched and dazed, his spent cock sticky with spit and come lying against his strong thigh, the blue eyes hazy and unfocused even as the wolf tries to look at Chris. His lips are moving but nothing is coming out, at least nothing Chris’ human ears can pick up and with a groan. Chris pushes down his briefs and takes himself in hand. 

Chris strokes himself once, twice, and then he’s coming all over Peter, marking the wolf in hot white splatter. _That_ won’t heal away, he thinks as he slowly milks every last drop from his cock, wiping the last of it from the tip with his thumb and lifting his hand to Peter’s face. 

There’s no hesitation when the wolf takes the digit in his mouth, wraps his tongue around it and sucks the last traces of Chris’ come off. Chris’ cock twitches in interest but he’s not going to get it up again this fast, and despite werewolf stamina, he doesn’t think Peter has it in him, either. 

“Is that what passes for breakfast, Argent?” Peter says, his voice as hoarse as if he’d been the one getting his throat fucked. 

Chris laughs. “I’ll make you pancakes if you want.” 

He doesn’t know which one of them is more surprised when Peter says yes and Chris kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticism welcome; come find me on [tumblr](screaming-towards-apotheosis.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any errrors!


End file.
